As Good As It Gets
by ibshafer
Summary: Karofsky  In the absence of the real thing…


**Story: **As Good As it Gets

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** Hard R  
**Character:** Dave Karofsky

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.  
**Summary:** In the absence of the real thing…  
**Warnings:** spoilers for NBK and after  
**A/N:** The author does not in any way condone bullying or any form of aggression towards homosexuals, or anyone else, for that matter.

As Good As it Gets

_- ibshafer_

_A-Ah!_

It's been going on too long now for him to worry about hellfire or parental damnation anymore. It feels too good to stop. Even though he is completely aware of how utterly pathetic both it and he _are_.

He just…_he just can't stop._

A quick intake of breath, a little shiver, his toes pointing at the images on the screen. Hand slick half with his own arousal, half with this fruity lotion his mom bought at the mall (_"What the hell is a 'pearberry,' anyway?"_) that he will forever associate with the inspiration for his current, fevered state.

_Kurt Hummel._

Another gasp, this time a good one, but he's still not quite there yet.

Wiping one hand on the leg of his sweats, he mouses to the next file; the _newest_ file, the one that nearly made him come the first time he saw it…

"_Furt,"_ it's titled.

One of those pansy-assed glee freaks – _'Hey, just wanted to share with you guys!'_ – considerately records and uploads the clips every time even _one_ of those losers stands up to croak out some lame-ass tune. He's got a whole _library_ of them now…

He doesn't even _listen_, really. He's all about watching.

And really, they could _all_ fall of the risers, for all he cares.

All of them except for Hummel.

He's been watching that kid since the 7th grade when his grammar school class moved on to the same junior high. For the first couple weeks of fascination, he didn't even realize Hummel was a _guy_. Staring at him from across the lunchroom, at the way he crossed his legs – like the girls he was sitting with, the gestures he made with his hands, laughing at some joke, telling some story, fingers waving, head back – just like the girls. And that high pitched laugh. It made him shiver and he didn't even know why. Honestly, he was young enough, inexperienced enough, to just think that Hummel was one of those late-blooming tom-girls. It wasn't until he came out of the shower after hockey practice one day and saw him changing into sweats – _in the boys' locker room_ – that he realized his mistake. He tried to laugh it off, it was all so confusing, but by that time, Hummel had crawled into his head and there was no getting him out. Not then and sure as hell, not _now_.

He was starting to go soft and that just wouldn't do, so he dragged the progress bar to the part that usually did it for him (_"And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for a while, 'cause you're amazing, just the way you are…") _and let off the mouse, the frozen image springing to life on flushed cheeks, moist eyes, and full lips curved ever-so-slightly upwards. Never mind the smile was over some sappy sentiment his new "brother" was crooning out in that cheesy, earnest way of his, it was that _mouth_, that _same mouth_ he'd tasted himself not too long ego, lips wet and pink and _parted_…

"_G-gaaahhhhh,"_ he gasped out, careful to swallow the sound as he came all over his hand, his sweats, shit, the _floor_…

His parents were still awake, watching Leno, no doubt, and the last thing he needed now was a, _"David? Everything OK in there?"_ through the door.

He was a healthy 17-year old. What did she _think_ he was doing in here all the time?

There was a time, a time when his stupid brain spun out impossible scenarios in an endless reel, that he was delusional enough to believe that Hummel, being…like-minded, might actually _let him_…you know, touch him – _for real_ – but any hope of that evaporated like so much spilled whiskey the day, no, _not_ that day (the day Hummel pushed him so hard he couldn't stop himself from kissing him, from practically devouring that hot little mouth), no, the day he let his Want get the better of him, one too many times, and in an effort to get close to Hummel, one more time, please god, _to smell his smell_, to be _that_ close, he had plastered a plastic grin on his face (because he was struggling with the Want and the Want wanted to _kiss_ Hummel again – _hard_), fixed him with the evil eye, leaned in close, _touched his chest_, and…and _took_ something from him; a goofy plastic cake topper like you'd put on a wedding cake. He didn't want the topper, but taking it gave the Want something to do and then later, he was so insanely pleased that he had something of Hummel's he could hold in his hand, that he came twice without playing a single video…

So yeah, there was no hope that Hummel would ever willingly let him kiss him again, let alone let him do all the other things he wanted to, the things that he thought about that kept him locked in his room watching stupid videos of people he hated – other than Hummel – so he could watch that face smile (instead of gape at him in fear or glare at him in hatred), watch those sweet, slim hips shimmy and sway, that hot little ass stretch the seams of skinny jeans (instead of standing frozen at the sight of him or scurrying away, also at the sight of him).

The videos allowed him to look without fear of being _seen_ looking, something Az would never have let him get away with.

No, at school, he had to be the Fury. At school he had to push Hummel around, yell things at him, intimidate him. At school he had to be mean to him, to scare him right out of McKinley and into that fag school across town.

_Being at school sucked._

It sucked because if it weren't for school and Az and the damned Fury, if it weren't for the swamp water in his head that kept him from seeing or feeling anything clearly, or honestly, he might have been able to tell Kurt Hummel how he really felt.

He might have been able to tell him that he loved _every little thing_ about him, from the fussy, complicated clothes he wore that hugged his slim hips, colors lighting his doe-like eyes. He might have been able to tell him that the sound of his voice, that _shit_, the mere mention of his name, could make him instantly hard, and no, that _wasn't_ something to be scared of because he wasn't always angry and wasn't always rough; he could be gentle, he _would_ be gentle, if only, if only _Kurt would let him._

But he'd fucked that up forever now, he didn't even get to see him (slam him/touch him) at school anymore.

_Videos were all he had._

And even as he felt himself getting hard again, he realized that this, this half-love/half-life, Hummel-porn was all he would _ever_ have.

This. This…was as good as it would ever get.

Hummel laughing and singing with that Rachel chick; Hummel in a leather jacket, singing really torqued and fast; Hummel in a tux, tears in his eyes as he sits next to his father; Hummel's sweet lips – smiling at everyone else but him – _never at him._

And he knew it was his fault. And he knew he didn't know how to deal with the fucked up things in his head.

And though this was the best he could hope for, _all_ he could hope for, at least, _at least_ he had this.

A shudder and release, the 4th time that evening, and he felt drained and pathetic and empty and grateful.

Grateful to have at least this.

"_You know, you know, you know _

_I'd never ask you to change, _

_if perfect's what you're searching for _

_than just stay the same."_

Fini…

4


End file.
